When I woke, I was in a hospital room. Ethan had run to our neighbor, Kelsey, who called 911. Tyler returned home that evening expecting the usual: a tidy house, quiet wife, hot dinner. Instead, he found chaos and a note that had slipped under a table: I want a divorce.
At the hospital, Tyler finally confronted reality. My sister explained my condition, the medical emergency, and—most shocking—the fact I was pregnant. For the first time, he had to inhabit my world: care for our children, manage the house, cook, and bear the emotional and physical weight I had carried alone for years. I overheard him on the phone with my mother, voice trembling: “How does she do this every day? I’m drowning.”
Even with his tears and newfound awareness, I did not retract the note. When I could speak, I confirmed the divorce. I didn’t argue. I didn’t yell. Years of verbal erosion had already done the work. He nodded quietly: “I deserve this.”
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